


A Peaceful Morning

by FrontButts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Argentina, Hannibal - Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Murder Husbands, btw look up the names of the characters bc they are deep af, graphic oc death, just like always lol, nbc hannibal - Freeform, poor ol detectives, s4, season four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6720682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrontButts/pseuds/FrontButts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I unfortunately have received a message from the American Bureau of Investigation,” he says, his eyes wandering to the broad bay windows at the back of the house. They overlook a pale beach. “We’ve been pulled into a manhunt, it seems.”</p><p>“A manhunt,” Doctor Latet repeats, setting his empty mug on the table and folding his hands in his lap. He is wearing a slim sweater and an older pair of dress pants. Not ideal. “Is there anything I can do to help?”</p><p>Iscar grins. “There might be, actually.” His eyes are far too blue. “You wouldn’t happen to know the name Jack Crawford, would you?”</p><p>Doctor Latet is impassive. “No,” he says. “I can’t say that I have. Who are you looking for, if I may ask?”</p><p>Detective Iscar’s smile curls into something dangerous, a hint of teeth glinting in the morning sun. “Hannibal the Cannibal.” He leans one arm on the countertop, and Doctor Latet glances swiftly at the smudged, greasy fingerprints the detective left on the stone. “And Will Graham.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Peaceful Morning

“Good morning.” The detective stands on shifting feet in the light-filled foyer, his fingers turning his badge over and over in his hands. He blinks at the bright sunlight filtering in from a skylight, and his eyes refocus on the man standing in front of him.

“Good morning, detective,” the other man says, regarding the detective with a strange light in his eye. He grips a pale-colored mug in both hands, and as the detective moves further into the house without invitation, he follows, his gait casual and fluid. His fingertips pressing into the warm ceramic of the mug are the only indication of his displeasure with the situation. His silvered hair is a bit too long for his taste -and for the detective’s taste, for that matter- and it falls in bluntly chopped wisps about his brow. The detective feels as if it’s a curtain, carefully drawn to avoid prying visitors. When they reach the kitchen, which is equally sunny and open, with a professional-grade appliance system and a broad, surgically-clean silver granite countertop, the detective stops and turns.

“I’m sorry, sir, I never introduced myself- although, I hope you were at least told I would be paying a visit.” He gives a half-hearted chuckle and holds out his hand. “Detective Iscar. And you would be Mister… ? Sorry, I lost the name for a second there.”

The other man smiles and shakes Iscar’s hand firmly. His hands are cold- the mug is empty. “Doctor Latet. Mister Latet is my husband.”

Iscar’s eyes harden ever so briefly. “Ah. My mistake. May we sit down? Talk a bit?”

Doctor Latet’s gracious gesture is as chilled as the detective’s expression. “Please,” he says. Iscar takes a seat at the countertop on one of the many hard leather-lined stools that are available there. Doctor Latet joins him and continues speaking as they situate themselves. “May I ask the reason for your visit?”

Detective Iscar is a man of middling height, with a softness to his torso and silhouette that conceals hard-earned musculature. His hair is short and dark, gelled perhaps a bit beyond the tasteful limit. He smiles broadly, and too often- to the point where it is insincere. Doctor Latet notices these things as he lets the detective keep up the cordial conversation.

“I unfortunately have received a message from the American Bureau of Investigation,” he says, his eyes wandering to the broad bay windows at the back of the house. They overlook a pale beach. “We’ve been pulled into a manhunt, it seems.”

“A manhunt,” Doctor Latet repeats, setting his empty mug on the table and folding his hands in his lap. He is wearing a slim sweater and an older pair of dress pants. Not ideal. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Iscar grins. “There might be, actually.” His eyes are far too blue. “You wouldn’t happen to know the name Jack Crawford, would you?”

Doctor Latet is impassive. “No,” he says. “I can’t say that I have. Who are you looking for, if I may ask?”

Detective Iscar’s smile curls into something dangerous, a hint of teeth glinting in the morning sun. “Hannibal the Cannibal.” He leans one arm on the countertop, and Doctor Latet glances swiftly at the smudged, greasy fingerprints the detective left on the stone. “And Will Graham.”

“Ah, yes,” Doctor Latet smiles again, a bit of genial humor entering his voice. “The ‘murder husbands,’ if I remember. And you have an idea of where they might be?”

“That’s the hope, yes,” Iscar replies. There is a protracted silence in which the ocean can be heard, pounding away at cold spring sand. It is late August in Argentina. Abruptly Doctor Latet stands and makes his way over to the kitchen’s counter, taking his mug with him. He keeps his back to Iscar as he prepares another kettle of hot water for coffee.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful to you, detective,” he says. “But if you’d like I can fetch my husband. He follows the news much more closely than I ever could.”

Iscar nods, watching Doctor Latet move across the kitchen almost unblinkingly. “That would be ideal, thank you.” Doctor Latet smiles at him and disappears down a hallway to the right of the windows. Iscar’s fingertip finds the gun at his waist, but instinct tells him he can wait a few minutes longer. It is quiet and a bit cold in the house, and Iscar is glad he was never offered the chance to take his coat off. After a few moments another man enters the room, this one smaller and less threatening than Doctor Latet was. He is wearing a dark blue bathrobe over linen trousers. Iscar smiles at him and stands up.

“I’m sure your husband told you already, Mister Latet, but my name is Detective Iscar,” he says, his voice slightly louder than usual. “And I have a few questions that I would like for you to answer the best you can.” 

Mister Latet nods. “Of course,” he says. He sits down with the detective, mirroring the arrangement of Iscar and the doctor moments prior. “You’re looking for the American men, right?”

“Yes.” Iscar glances over Mister Latet’s shoulder at the hallway from which Doctor Latet has not reappeared. He leans closer to Mister Latet and lowers his voice. “This is all a bit confidential, I hope you understand,” he says. Mister Latet nods again. “In fact, there’s a few things I’d like to ask you that I’d prefer Doctor Latet didn’t know about.” Latet is silent this time, as close to Iscar as Iscar is to him. The detective drops his voice to a whisper. “Do you feel safe here?”

Mister Latet sits up quickly and frowns, seeming a bit offended. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “I don’t really understand what you mean.”

Iscar glances around again. “I understand that we are in a touchy situation, Mister Latet, but you can be honest with me if you need to.” He glances down at his hands, in knots on his knee again, and then back into Latet’s blank eyes. “Are you being held against your will in any way?”

Latet seems strangely amused by this comment, but he shifts in his seat, eyeing the detective uncomfortably. “Well, detective, I mean, no one has a perfectly happy marriage.” He glances back at the hallway. “But no, I can’t say that I feel that way.”

Iscar nods, unconvinced, and sighs. “Listen, Mister Latet. I am a member of the police force. I am telling you right now that there is no one else here. No one listening. You are safe. The American FBI has a few concerns with the nature of- ”

Latet stands up quite suddenly, looks over his shoulder, and then back at Iscar, who has respectfully and tactfully fallen silent. Latet watches him for a moment, his eyes flickering back and forth across the detective’s face. He seems to be battling with something- whether it is himself or something else, Iscar cannot tell. But he knows he is close- the FBI and the Argentinian police force didn’t have enough evidence to convict, or to make any arrests- but he knows that whatever “Mister Latet” says once he makes up his mind will tell Iscar whether he will return in the future or not. He notices that Latet’s right fist is tightly closed, the knuckles shifting uneasily. He tenses.

“There’s no one else here?” Latet repeats, his voice clearer and slower now, but still with an edge of nerves. Iscar nods. He is watching Latet’s face carefully, eye to eye, and he frowns when he sees a small grin at the corner of Latet’s mouth. Suddenly Latet kicks viciously at the detective’s chest, sending him sprawling across the hard kitchen floor, winded and shocked. He chokes on his own windpipe as Latet disappears from his blurry vision. Then there is darkness- someone has put shades over the windows, and the room is plunged into the dusky blue-grey of shadows.

Footsteps, measured and quick, silent and padding, back and forth across the wooden floors. Scuffling, a whisper, the ever-steady beat of the ocean in Iscar’s ears as he regains his breath and reaches for his gun. After a few more agonizing seconds he stands, gun at the ready, squinting in the dark room. He sees the edge of a dark blue bathrobe whip out of sight down the hallway to his right. Iscar follows.

Down the hallway, which is just as dark as the main living area, Iscar sees a few doors that branch into various rooms of the house- a bedroom, a bath, a small closet. But at the end of the hallway lies the target of his suspicions- the door there, which swings gently on old hinges, evidence of recent, hurried use, leads down. And, judging by the echo of water that finds its way up into the still hallway, down and out. Iscar follows, the smell of salt and cold air urging him on.

The stairs are old, much older than whatever the newest incarnation of this house is, and they are soft and pliable under Iscar’s feet, with the kind of waxy texture that finished wood acquires when exposed to the corrosion of ocean air for so many years. Iscar pays them no mind, however- he keeps his thoughts on the sightless, rough-hewn passage in front of him. At the bottom he can see the vague, milky indication of sunlight, and he hears a hollow echo that doesn’t seem, at least to his senses, to be a symptom of nature.

Suddenly the cave opens before him, massive and smooth, carved from black stone by the ocean eons ago. The ceiling is perhaps thirty feet above Iscar's head, sloping down to a narrow opening onto the beach a hundred feet away, and columns and arches of rock stretch down to bury themselves in the sand. The ground is perpetually moist, with pools of frigid salty water lapping back and forth with some invisible tide. For a brief second Detective Iscar sees the vague imprint of footprints in the caramel-beige sand, but a stray wave sucks them away before Iscar can process their direction. He moves out towards the center of the cave.

The cave is full of echoes, and Iscar draws his gun.

"Don't shoot, detective." A voice behind him, calm and almost pleasant. Iscar whips around to find Doctor Letet standing a few yards away, subtly placing himself between the detective and the stairway. The doctor has his hands raised at head level, his palms flat and open. He takes a slow, casual step forwards, and Detective Iscar's thumb goes to the hammer of the pistol. Doctor Letet smiles and shakes his head. "I said don't shoot."

"Where is 'Mister Letet?'" Iscar asks, advancing on the doctor, who merely stands his ground. Iscar's voice is low. "Or should I say Will Graham?"

"What do you wish me to say, detective?" At the mention of Will Graham Hannibal Lecter straightens, his shoulders squaring and his eyes hardening into chips of glass. He becomes very still. Iscar steadies his grip on the gun. "Your lack of evidence is astonishing. You are acting on instinct alone."

Iscar grins. "I can still arrest him for the assault of an officer of the law," he says, releasing his grip on the gun with one hand to pull down the collar of his shirt, revealing an already-forming bruise where he was kicked. "And I have all the evidence I need for that." Hannibal stares at the detective, his eyes two burning brands, his gaze flickering between the mark on Iscar's chest and the gun in his hand. "Your husband would have to do jail time for that, Doctor Lecter. And do you know what that means?" Iscar's smile is chilly and triumphant. "Fingerprints. And something tells me he's already in the system."

Hannibal nods, his eyes carefully trained on Iscar's. "A fair point," he says, measured and slow. "But you'd have to catch him first."

Iscar has just enough time to frown before he feels someone leap onto his back.

Will Graham barely manages to wrest the gun from Iscar's thick fingers, but he has the element of surprise on his side once again. He wraps his legs firmly around the detective's waist and grips his neck with one hand, using the other to pull the gun out of Iscar's grasp. Iscar stills when he feels cool metal against his temple.

"Easy now," he says, his voice a cautious growl. It still has hints of its old benevolence in it. "No need for theatrics, Mister Graham."

Will clambers off of Iscar's back and backs away, still with the gun trained on Iscar's forehead. Iscar notes with some surprise that Graham has the steady, practiced grip of someone trained in handling firearms. Jack Crawford didn't bother to tell him that. Will makes a wide circle around Iscar and joins Hannibal on the other side of the cave. Hannibal takes a small step towards him. Iscar raises his hands, sensing his chances of escaping are disappearing fast. For a moment the cacophony of ocean waves and the magnified dripping of water are the only sounds in the cave. Iscar allows half a grin to leak onto his face.

"See here, Mister Graham," he says, trying to keep his body language as casual as possible. "Forgive me for misunderstanding. I was told this was a hostage situation."

Will smiles and shrugs. "Well, I suppose it is now."

Detective Iscar's breath quickens for the briefest of moments, and he catches sight of Hannibal's amused expression before forcing his eyes back to Will.

Will takes a step towards Iscar, but he addresses Hannibal when he speaks. "So that's what Jack told the FBI to keep his job."

Hannibal nods. "How creative. I commend his forward thinking." Iscar glances between the two of them, his hands still raised, trying to gauge the odds of him dodging Will, overpowering Hannibal, and escaping up the stairs. He doesn’t dare look away, but behind him he can hear the wind and the ocean from beyond the cave’s opening, a mere thirty yards away. He imagines breaking into a sprint and darting out into the morning sunlight. He imagines lying on his face in the wet sand, his back full of bullet holes. He stays still.

Will is still inching forwards, ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving Iscar’s face. Behind him, Hannibal is moving to Iscar’s right, and together they circle him like wolves. Iscar notices Hannibal’s hands are in his pockets. He feels sweat forming on his forehead.

Suddenly Will cocks the gun, and Iscar cringes instinctively. He braces himself for the singing tear of bullets ripping through his torso, his eyes shut out of primal, survivalist fear, but the gunshots ring out and there is no pain. Iscar counts six, and then a soft click, and he opens his eyes. Will lowers the empty gun from its position aiming at the ceiling and throws it aside. He stares at Iscar.

“I hate guns,” he says, deathly slow, like the tolling of a bell. It seems final to Iscar. Hannibal smiles broadly. Silence again, besides the faint reverberations of the gunshots, like the keening of an animal, and the ever-present, tantalizingly near sounds of the sea.

Detective Iscar decides to run.

The sand is wet and powder-fine, and Iscar trips in the slick, soft mess, feeling frigid salt water leak through his shoes and splatter up the backs of his calves like tiny stinging insects. For a moment there’s no other sound, and beyond his wild relief Iscar has the nagging, almost indignant feeling they’re giving him a head start. Then the loud clapping of other feet hitting the sand, almost in sync but not quite, and he doubles his pace. His heart and his lungs are pounding in his head, and he squints as he nears the defiant rays of sun that filter through the cave’s entrance, bright and white against the twilight of the cave- but the footsteps draw nearer, and he hears through his own panting the steady, measured breathing of the others, and he doesn’t dare turn around-

A few scattered droplets of blood escape beyond the cave’s entrance and are lapped up by the approaching high tide.

Will drops the knife next to Detective Iscar’s stilling body and kneels beside a tide pool, running frigid water over his red-stained hands. A few feet beyond him Hannibal stands catching his breath, running bloody fingers through already-ruined hair. He stoops to retrieve Will’s bathrobe, discarded in the chase, and pulls it over his own shoulders, though it is a bit small for him. A wave slips through the cave’s opening and shifts Iscar’s corpse a few inches, tiny swirls of blood dancing in the water like dust motes in sunlight. Hannibal joins Will in watching the eddies of red flow back and forth as the wave retreats.

“Should we leave it for the tide?” Will asks as Hannibal helps him up, his eyes still on Iscar. His voice is barely a whisper, and the cave picks it up and tosses it back and forth in breathy echoes. Hannibal doesn’t answer for a moment- he merely removes the bathrobe, warm from his body heat, and wraps it around Will. Will smiles.

“No,” Hannibal says finally. “The current will carry it down to the tourist area. Seems disrespectful to give Detective Iscar such a poor sendoff.” There is a gaping line drawn across Iscar’s throat, and the water slides in and out like breath. The wound in his side leaks blood into the tide pool, and it reminds Will of a river emptying into the sea. Will leans back against Hannibal, beginning to feel the frigid water take its toll on him. He shivers, and Hannibal notices. “Go back to the house, Will,” Hannibal says. He lowers his head until his nose is brushing against Will’s cheekbone, his voice low. “Leave the bone saw and the rongeur at the top of the stairs. Run a bath.” He pulls back and gazes down at Iscar’s body, the shadow of a smile on his face. “Who knows if the detective had friends? They may come to call, and we can’t both be unavailable at the moment.” Hannibal turns back to Will, and unconsciously their fingertips thread together. “I’ll be up soon.”

Will grins and backs away a few steps, closing the bathrobe so it conceals the bloodstains that saturate his sleeves to the elbow. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he says. Then he is gone, his soft footsteps echoing into the bowels of the cavern, leaving Hannibal alone. Hannibal closes his eyes and tilts his chin up, enjoying just for the briefest of moments the brilliant sunlight and the sounds of the ocean. At his feet, Detective Iscar sways back and forth with the tide, inching ever closer to the freedom of the beach.


End file.
